Choices
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: Shawn contemplates his feelings about Jules when he dances with her at the annual policeman's ball. Shules!


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Psych. This takes place in season four, aka Abigail is living in Uganda and Shawn and Jules are basically in love but not sure how to say it to each other. :)**

Saturday night: usually one of the busier times of the week for the Santa Barbara Police Department. Oh, of course they're busy now, as we speak, actually, but not now concerning cuffing criminals, interrogating suspects, and delivering convicts to prison. As it would turn out, the SBPD had a human, wild side. They exposed that part of themselves when they had their annual baseball game or gave an impromptu five-minute birthday party for one of their officers. Or now.

It is the night of the SBPD's annual policeman's ball.

* * *

The party was well into progression: barely eight o'clock and many already inebriated. A conductor held a group of sharply dressed musicians in a broad corner, conducting a beautiful melody screaming of elegance. (This is certainly one of their more . . . . restrained events.) A long buffet, vacant of its delicate, feasible hors d'oeuvres, sat toward the back. The center rented for the occasion held a large number of tables all elegantly set with silver and glass. White flowers in tall, glass vases were centerpieces. Many of the guests were extremely wealthy and cheerful, thinking that all their donations and appearances added up into a delightful showing of their charity. Policemen's families crowded the tables, children under eighteen not there at all. Even Chief Vick's children, Iris and her brother, were under the care of a babysitter this evening. The Chief sat with her husband at their own table very far away from the orchestra. She wore a gold necklace and a nice black dress. Her wine glass swung around a little in her hand. She wore a slightly displeased facial expression. For here follows her table-side companions:

Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, very single and very impatient. He sat on her right, wearing his usual suit that was probably all he carried in his wardrobe. His jokes had become very listless after a few minutes of trying to butt into a conversation which Shawn could've kept rolling for hours. Vick swore she could see Shawn talking to a mailbox for four hours and enjoying himself immensely just because he thought his voice was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard in his entire life.

Next to Lassiter sat the only person who could really stand him for longer than three minutes and neither insult him or throw up her hands and scream in anger. Juliet looked particularly beautiful this evening, for she scrambled and shopped all afternoon and curled her hair. Her blue eyes were shining with her fresh long hair and sleeveless crystalline dress. Her work clothes never gave her beauty true justice.

Next to Juliet sat Burton Guster. It was unclear if he sat between Shawn and Juliet consciously and deliberately. (Nobody but he and Shawn knew that Shawn had specifically shoved Gus toward that seat.) His eyes kept away from the table, searching the crowd for anyone who'd like to get to know Fearless Guster. But since the variety of women were either A, married, or B, really and truly wealthy and therefore holding a card over his head, his success in striking up an engaging conversation with a woman was on a downward incline. He'd just returned from his fifth attempt, dejected because the woman had to run to meet with the petsitter of her beloved bloodhound. ("Shawn, I really don't get women sometimes." "Gus, you mean you don't get women _all_ of the time." "Shut up, that's not true, Shawn." "Just because you keep denying the truth doesn't mean that it will suddenly disappear.")

Next to Gus was the center of attention (as per usual), psychic Shawn Spencer, wearing dressier clothes than usual and 80s' dancing shoes. ("I'd been expecting something a bit more disco-y at this ball, Gus." "This is a couples' ball, Shawn, not an eighties' high school prom." "I see that I'm way out of the dress code, then." "Ha. You could say that again." "It doesn't bear repeating, you just heard what I said." "Figure of speech, Shawn . . .") While, yes, he had been the sole carrier of the conversation at the table, keeping it from sliding down into an awkward silence between the barely-even-friends-slash-coworkers-slash-receivers-of-paychecks-made-from-the-SPBD table, his tongue was saying anything at this point to keep it up. Nobody was supplying his banter; even Lassie had given up on cheap shots and sarcastic remarks; even loyal Gus had lost his mood for lighthearted banter after his third turn-down.

At last, to round out the table: Vick's husband sat on her left, and between him and Shawn was Henry Spencer, wearing for once a decent suit instead of a Hawaiian shirt begging for funny comments and puns and jokes to be made about it. He had gone to every single policeman's ball ever since he joined the force, the loyalist he was, and had enjoyed greeting old and new friends alike.

The table's contents contained the obviously used silverware and dishes; glasses stood half empty of dark-ruby alcohol. A chopped pineapple sat on a little saucer, almost nothing more left but a scrap of rind and core. Plates with remnants of creamy white desserts stood in stacks. The banquet at the ball had been demolished.

Shawn's tongue shut up and his lips slammed together into a firm line. Everyone around him was dancing in couples; how romantic. Too bad he was neither the traditional dancer type or taken. A sharp pang for Abigail came through his mind; then he remembered she was blissfully surrounded by dark-skinned children, building a school, and probably wishing for AC. She was fine. Perfectly happy as single. Yeah. He wasn't, really.

"Man, it's only eight o'clock. We've still got three hours to go," Gus said.

"Well, buddy, let's at least stay until the raffle is done. I have two tickets on the basket containing the dried pineapples and cheesy crusties," Shawn said.

Gus pffted. "Someone put all their eggs in one basket."

"Gus, I know I'm winning that basket."

"You better not have rigged it just to prove that you're right."

"I most certainly did not, Mr. Sourpuss. Speaking of which, how's Fearless Guster with the ladies?"

"You know what, Shawn? I am tired right now; tired of your voice and people and police balls."

"Someone's being _sour_."

"Shawn, can you not?" Gus said, sighing and slouching a little in his wooden-backed seat. "I'm not in the mood."

"For once, I agree with Guster. Shut it, Spencer," Lassie said, his arms folded over his suit. He and Gus seemed to be speaking from the same place; divorced and single and not good with the ladies. Of course the only people at their table who were happy and content were the Vicks.

"Wow, everyone is so darn cheerful. It lightens the heart, speaks to the soul," Shawn said, physically moving himself around in his seat so that he wasn't facing the crowd of couples dancing sweetly and intimately ahead of him. Facing the table, his eyes couldn't help but go to Juliet. She was checking her watch, almost like she was waiting for something. She sighed and tucked a bit of blonde hair behind her ear. He could hear the click of her high heel thumping against the wooden floor boards. Impatient. Impatient for what, though, Jules?

Eventually her eyes met his. Normally she'd hold them for a few seconds before turning to the next person talking; but she kept them. Her mouth was in a straight line, but her eyes were shining, almost if as they were speaking instead. But what was she saying? Shawn . . . Shawn couldn't tell what.

"Oh, there's the Chief Commissioner. I'm going to go by duty and exchange a few words with him," Vick said, standing up. Her husband, Richard, stood up to join her. She flashed a quick, sarcastic smile at the rest of the table. "Don't keep us from your conversation, Spencer."

"I—I wasn't going to say anything," Shawn said, his eyes flickering from Juliet's to Vick's. Vick raised an eyebrow and kept walking.

"Maddie used to go to these with me," Henry said.

"Oh, Dad. Come on. Not now," Shawn said, groaning.

"Why not? This brings up old memories. We never took you because once, on take-your-kid-to-work-day, you almost got two restraining orders held against you. There were officers there who you couldn't be within fifty feet of—"

"A fact I am proud of," Shawn said.

"That's nothing to be proud of, Shawn," Gus said, shaking his head.

Shawn made a weird face at him.

"—so we always got a babysitter for you. And she'd wear this beautiful white dress and her hair was all in curls. She was a dream, I'll tell ya. And we'd dance after dinner, and there was this one song that was our song, and we didn't say anything but just danced together. It was quite beautiful," Henry said, sighing reminiscently.

Lassie, Gus, and Shawn all sighed for entirely different reasons.

"I came here a couple times with Victoria. She always complained the food was always too salty and the wine was too sour," Lassie said, almost blankly.

"Well, then _she's_ the sourpuss," Shawn said.

Lassie gave him such a glare that he could have murdered him right there if he wasn't in a room crawling with officers and distinguished guests.

"This is my first time at a policeman's ball. It's not bad, for what it's worth. You, Juliet?" Gus asked.

Juliet was startled out of some kind of revery. She cleared her throat. "What, Gus?"

"Is this your first policeman's ball?" Gus repeated kindly.

"No, actually. I went to last year's," Juliet said. "It was kinda boring. Nothing really happened. Carlton and I just stood by the punch bowl and nearly emptied it."

"She took most of the sherbet," Lassie said bitterly.

"Okay, I didn't know you like orange sherbet! Are you going to hold that against me forever?" Juliet said, exasperated.

"Maybe," Lassie said, not even meeting her eyes.

"Wow. Wow." Juliet sighed and sagged a little in her seat. Blonde curls hung near her face.

Now it was completely impossible for Shawn to not keep his eyes on her. She commanded his attention. Of all the thousand things happening and existing in that room, she demanded his attention just by sitting there. She was a magnet. And he wasn't entirely against this pull towards her. He was just scared of it.

Ten minutes passed thus in this like fashion; then the orchestra played up something lively, a delightful village-type romp. Henry had gone to shake a few hands and exchange pleasantries and get away from his son's relentless sharp prods at any and everything. Lassie was receiving his fourth glass of wine, smiling mellowly now, and holding a conversation with a confused Gus, who was slowly inching his chair away from this drunk Lassie. Shawn was sitting in a strange way on his chair; his legs hung off the side, his side facing the table. His head was bent; he wasn't fighting off a headache from the red wine or receiving a 'psychic vision'. For once, it was easier to think without all the people conversing and dancing and smacking their lips together around him.

Shawn was in a constant battle: he wasn't sure what parts of him were fighting in this civil war, but he was sure it was his better judgment against his realized feelings: his realized feelings for Juliet.

How funny, how this straightforward blonde detective could suddenly make his head hurt; she shouldn't be able to do this. Maybe he was suffering from the loss of Abigail; but that couldn't be it. He liked Abigail and kissing her well enough, but his heart wasn't broken after she left. No. He . . . he was fine about Abigail, in the end. She hadn't meant so much to him.

He remembered when he was shot, how he had been coerced to say such veiled words to Juliet. How she'd not been infected by the Thornburg virus and he had had ample opportunity to make his thoughts known at her not-deathbed, and how he'd absolutely, positively _choked_. Not a word about that day had been discussed between him, Gus, or Juliet, but he thought of that moment and replayed it over and over in his mind almost every day since that day. He remembered every single exquisite detail before and after Gus removed the threat on her life. He realized how every word he had wanted to say, to confess to beautiful Juliet, he had _meant_. And for once his stupid tongue stopped, and he choked, and he wished for that moment back for the thousandth time.

Here's the thing: he doesn't care much about anything; he isn't _supposed_ to care. But he _does_. This isn't part of the plan, and yet the steps of the plan, for the future, are laid out in front of him. He's denying the truth like he never does.

He loves being right; he also hates it.

"How much longer?" Gus said, checking his watch. His attempt at gleaning a time that satisfied him made him groan and toast his cup with a cheerfully smiling Lassie.

That was the last straw. Shawn officially couldn't take another minute here at the Loserly McLoser Table. He wasn't going to be a member; not a loser now. He turned instantly to Juliet, who immediately was alert, perhaps waiting for him to pass her some information for a case right there and then; she was obviously open to anything besides an invitation to drink the punch bowl dry.

Shawn could hear the elegant music playing against his ears. He could see Juliet's determined eyes, waiting impatiently for some word from him. And dang it, he almost _choked_ _again_. But he swallowed away the crack that would impair his sentence from taking full effect and said, "Juliet, I fear that Gus's wallflower-ness from his high school days is rubbing off on us. This is the table of the unpopular nerds and geeks with their little volcanoes that win at science fairs."

Juliet's face was both contemplative and confused. "Shawn, where are you trying to get at with that, exactly?"

"Care to dance, Jules?"

Juliet stared at him for a second; she fully registered what he meant by his question the second he said it, but she couldn't help but stare at him still. Maybe she was trying to pin the words on him, juxtapose the words against him and see if they actually made sense. Yeah, she _heard_ them, but did he honestly really and truly mean it?

Then again, Shawn had said many crazier things than this. He totally meant those, even when she didn't know their meaning. And in this situation, they both knew exactly what he meant.

She extended her pretty hand. "I wouldn't mind at all, Shawn."

Gus appeared, for the first time in an hour, surprised and interested by something happening. Even Lassie, slightly aware of who he was conversing with, sobered for a moment and watched with a gaping open mouth as his arch-nemesis, his rival who was totally against him from every side, making him look like a fool at every turn and taking the honor and reward he should have earned on 'most every single case that came his way, walk his partner, Detective Juliet O'Hara, onto the dance floor of one of the most highly anticipated and decorated events of the year. How was this physically possible?! He—he was _hallucinating_. That was _clearly_ the only reasonable explanation.

Meanwhile next to him, Gus said, "That's my boy."

Shawn was sure the music was a score from some Victorian-era or Jane Austen-esque movie his dad used to make him watch as a kid. He kept his eyes on the orchestra until the hand in his pulled him to a stop. "Here's a good spot, Shawn," Juliet said.

"What, you don't want to go in deeper into the crowd?" Shawn asked, turning and meeting her eyes.

Juliet had to tip her head slightly. "I don't want to get swallowed up."

"No offense to the violins this music is bleeding from, but I was expecting some high heels and disco balls, with florescent lighting," Shawn said, casting his eyes down to his dancing shoes.

Juliet looked down and said, "Ah. Yeah. Clearly you're unprepared." She smiled smartly, maybe grinning a little.

A moment of pause; the music continued gleefully along. All around them the couples swung about, laughing and dipping and pausing for kissing.

Shawn smiled as well, and holding their joined hands together in the space between them, bowed deeply, saying seriously, "My lady."

"Good sir," Juliet said, equally serious, and she laughed as Shawn swung her around. The dance included clapping and they clapped and swung on each other's arms. Juliet's dress was too skin-tight to afford her much skirt to clasp in her hand as she romped about, but she didn't care. She could barely stand up at the end, she was laughing so hard. Shawn liked the sound of her laughter. She so rarely laughed. Her hand slipped out of his and pressed against her mouth with her other to stifle her laughter. Shawn felt stupid as he just stood there and watched her, an unabashed grin on his face. Then it slowly faded into a tight smile; then into something rather grim as a song came up; it was a soft and slow song, calm and intimate. Romantic.

So a choice lay before him; another lay to his side. To dance with Juliet or walk back to the table. Did she expect to keep dancing with him? What had he even meant by this? Was he trying to imply anything? Dang, but he could imply a lot by dancing slowly to a romantic, tear-jerking score with her. Man, where was Gus when he needed him? Wait, was he actually wishing for Gus to rescue him from dancing with Juliet? On what planet did that make sense? None? Was that the answer? Which choice was he going to take? Was he going to wimp out? Why did he even ask her to dance in the first place? Why did he have so many questions in his head? And she kept staring at him? Wait, she's waiting for an answer? Oh, dang.

He could have actually slapped himself in the face at that precise moment, honestly and truly. That might've been the less consequence-laden choice than the one he made. But . . . . he didn't care. He just kinda went with his gut-feeling.

Their eyes never strayed away from each other's as their hands found their positions automatically. Her hand gripped his shoulder and his hand spanned half her waist. Neither said a word as their feet moved slowly and back and forth, step-by-step; she'd taken ballroom dance classes when she went undercover on a case. He had danced maybe twice. His partner hadn't been very good either time. But Juliet had skill, forethought to step where his feet weren't.

Both were so quiet it felt alien. Neither saw anyone else, like Henry coming over to Gus and pointing and asking astonished questions, or Lassie with his hand under his chin, his shrewd detective's eyes trying to decipher how . . . how exactly his straight-headed partner could be so close to this hair-brained overgrown child? It made no sense. Yet, somehow, it made sense to Shawn. To him at least, it did. And Juliet couldn't help how her heart pounded when he'd look sincerely into her eyes, like he could never lie, or how her hand in his—well, it felt so _right_. She felt safe next to him. She didn't often get the opportunity to feel safe. But she felt like in that moment, the slow strings and light thumps on drums giving rhythm to their feet, no one could touch the two of them. It was just the two of them and the music.

The space between them was minimal; Juliet destroyed it by leaning her head against his shoulder. She closed her eyes and her other senses were sharpened; she became distinctly aware of her heart thumping against her chest and the sharp inhale of his breath next to her ear and his fingerprints burning against her hand and the smell of his cologne: cologne? Must have borrowed some from Gus. But then, she didn't care. She just felt completely content in her world of four senses and Shawn until the music suddenly stopped and she was jerked back into harsh, confrontational reality.

Their eyes met again; blue to brown.

"You know, I learned all my dance moves from Gus," Shawn said calmly.

"Give him my compliments. I'm not going to go home with sore toes because of him and his teaching," Juliet said quickly but breathlessly back.

Shawn nodded, and he gave her the tiniest of smiles. Then he cocked his head to the side and said, "Should we get back to our table before Lassie starts to butt into people's conversations like a bull?"

"Yeah, we should stop him from drinking anymore. I should probably drive him to his house. Then I won't have him on my conscience," Juliet said, scrambling for words.

"Sounds like a good plan. I'll stay here with Gus to wait for the raffle," Shawn said.

"Sounds good," Juliet said. Their hands slipped apart, and they walked back, one a little ahead of the other, to their table, both appearing seemingly calm, cool and collected, when inwardly they were shouting at themselves, questioning themselves about what they just did, and whether it meant exactly what they hoped to convey to their partner.

Juliet grabbed Lassiter by the arm, smiled and said goodbye to Henry and Gus, who both amiably waved, and then said, "Goodbye, Shawn," weird little pauses between the words.

He gave her a quick wave of the hand. "Bye, Jules."

She walked off to say goodbye to the Chief and Henry chuckled sarcastically as he turned to his son, who was sitting down and hoping for no lecture or joking to come his way. Henry caught sight of Shawn's bent shoulders and bowed head and Gus's face saying 'ixnay on the lecture-ay'. He instead sat down and said, clasping his hands together, his eyes watching not his son but the couples passing by them, "Shawn, do you know where me and your mother had our first date?"

"Dad, I'm kinda not in the mood to go walking down memory lane here." Shawn's voice sounded muffled.

Henry pretended to not have heard him. "At this very policeman's ball." He smiled a little to himself. Then he patted Shawn's shoulder and walked away.

Gus wisely said nothing. Concerning Shawn and Juliet, he heard everything but didn't say a word. He knew already that every word he could say Shawn had already run through his mind.

A few minutes passed and Shawn finally looked up. "Buddy, the raffle's about to start," he said.

Gus nodded and hands on his knees, stood himself up. He looked down at Shawn and said, "You coming?"

"Yeah. . . . Yeah, I'm coming," Shawn said. He hadn't stopped interrogating himself since that dance ended; the final result he got was this: It was not a decision he was going to regret. He took a risk and it paid off. In what way? He didn't know. He was sure it did, though. And this: Juliet was unlike any woman he'd ever met before. He'd say unlike any woman he'd ever dated, but she and he . . . they'd never dated.

But now . . . after this, after that sincere look in her eyes that surprised him beyond anything he could have imagined was felt by her . . . dating was an actual option, an actual choice.

It was just a matter of making that choice.

**Thanks for reading! God bless!**


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